


Mute

by Syrum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Hand Jobs, Hook-Up, Kissing, M/M, No Dialogue, One Night Stands, Oops, Present Tense, Rough Kissing, They both got attached, Young Mycroft Holmes/Young Greg Lestrade, except not, no dialogue challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 15:16:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19889962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: Mycroft's little more than an assistant yet, but he's fresh out of university and with the whole world open to him, it's worth the temporary indignation.Greg's been out of school since he was fifteen, has never known anything other than hard work and loud music, and has very few employment prospects ahead of him.It's chance that brings them together, and a hastily scribbled phone number that keeps them that way.





	Mute

He’s attractive, and he knows it. Dark hair and a darker smirk, piercings as stark silver punctuation marks against lip and brow, and he cannot help but wonder if there are any out of sight beneath the leather jacket with upright collar and ripped jeans showing flashes of clear, sun-worshipped skin. There’s a wild sort of chaos around the man, hanging from him like the chain that adorns his belt, radiating from his very core. It’s too bright and too much, a sun bigger than their own pulling Mycroft in, catching him in an inescapable gravity only moments away from going supernova.

He’s staring, though he tries not to, and the man stares back. Eyes a sparkling brown and he knows, he _knows_ , but it doesn’t matter because this is little more than a fleeting moment in time for both of them - and they know it. It isn’t that Mycroft doesn’t want to be there - he does, because it’s a means to an end, because following an overpaid half-cocked politician around when he could easily talk rings around the idiot of a man is the only way he can get what he needs. He will play the part of the good little assistant, to get to where he aims to be.

So he has to want to be there, whether he wants to want or not. And, in that moment, he _wants_.

Wants the slide of skin and the taste of sweat, the press of lips and desperate, frantic scramble of hands and clothes and _everything_. Wants the sweet murmur of words which should never have been meant for him, the curl of a smile and the scent of leather. A temporary, blissful reprieve from the monotony, and one he cannot have while he smiles and nods and takes notes and fetches coffee.

The interview will be done within a scant few minutes, and the youths will be forced to disband, no longer welcome once their roles had been suitably played. A performance for television and little else, election season close enough that each party has started making its move, every man and woman as shallow as the last.

And then Mycroft’s chance is gone. Not that he had a chance to begin with.

The camera crew begins to pack their equipment away, shallow and insincere thanks are given, and he’s left to stand and wait for his superiors to finish their goodbyes. He hasn’t noticed the approach, too inexperienced still to recognise the deliberate step of someone with single-minded focus. A hand on his wrist and he startles, another pressing a scrap of torn paper into his palm, burning hot to match the fire-soaked centre of this brilliant, beautiful man. Mycroft’s breath catches, earns him a filthy smirk and a wink filled with too much promise and he’s left staring at the retreating back of his universe.

A name - _Greg_ \- a number - _local_. He pockets the paper carefully, making certain he cannot accidentally lose it, knowing that it may well be a prank but that he will call it regardless.

It’s two days before he’s able to, and a woman picks up on a third ring. He introduces himself, hears her hesitation on the other end of the line. Knows it’s his accent. He doesn’t consider their class difference to be important, knows that’s her immediate assumption anyway, assures the woman that it’s in regards to the interview Greg kindly did on Monday and that he isn’t in any sort of trouble.

Mycroft almost hopes _he_ is the one in trouble.

Greg’s voice is a purr down the line, the confident growl of a tiger and he shivers despite himself. Memories of full lips and deliberately patched clothing and safety pins assault his thoughts as they carefully dance around a time and a place and ensure that they are both very much on the same page.

They are, and it’s dangerous, but Mycroft goes anyway. He’s met at the door with a grin that seems entirely too self-indulgent, the house one in a line of many, a little run-down and a lot loved and there’s the scent of baking from next door’s open kitchen window. Herbs grow in a little pot by the front door, sitting right there on the street for anyone to help themselves to, and somehow he knows that no one does. Not without asking.

It isn’t that sort of area.

The house is in need of redecorating, and Mycroft’s family could buy the entire street should the desire take them. That isn’t the point however, and he dutifully ignores the cracked plaster and peeling wallpaper in favour of being ushered into an upstairs bedroom. The door shuts behind them, locks from the inside, and he isn’t given the opportunity to gather anything resembling nerves as he’s tugged against a firm chest and kissed to within an inch of his life.

They don’t have long. Greg’s father will be home at six, and it’s a quarter to five already.

He’s a little taller than Greg, though not by much, but it’s enough to give him the upper hand. Not that Greg seems to mind; he lets Mycroft push him back to the edge of the bed, toppling willingly and landing with a bounce and a grin. He’s not wearing the jacket this time, and they’re inside so why would he? His tee - _Sex Pistols_ , and it’s a delightful cliche for their generation - rides up as he lands and is shoved the rest of the way up by smooth, manicured hands.

He knows instinctively, without needing it confirmed, that this is just as much of a novelty for Greg as it is for him. Two worlds, two impossibly different people, and had their paths diverged even slightly they would never have met at all. He’s all smooth lines and softness, a life of luxury and mental taxation. Greg is harsh angles and rough edges, calloused fingers and the slow grind of the working classes. A diamond, polished to perfection through hard graft and the chafe of society’s flaws. Beautiful, and opposite, and as Mycroft pushes at the powder-washed cotton of Greg’s tee he _wants._

There’s too little time to draw it out, and he hopes that perhaps they might have a second chance at all of this, even while knowing that they can’t. Greg tastes as rich and decadent as he had hoped, and he explores the man under his tongue even as they push and pull at fabric and buttons hiding their true forms.

He’s just as stunning nude as he had been clothed, and Mycroft straddles Greg’s hips as he drinks in the endless planes of honey-licked skin. He’s _beautiful,_ and what he wouldn’t do to be inside this man. He cannot, they cannot, there isn’t the time for adequate worship of such a body and he’s certain he could cry.

It’s rough, and fast, but a spit-slicked palm eases the way and Mycroft’s fingers are long enough for the both of them. Greg arches against him, thrusts against his hand, his dick, muffled whines swallowed down by desperate, needy kisses. They don’t have _time,_ and yet with this dark-haired Adonis sprawled out beneath him, Mycroft can almost imagine they have all the time in the world.

Greg’s hand wraps around his own, squeezing. Urging him faster, harder, _more_ . He thinks his voice is trying to urge the same, but the words are lost to Mycroft’s lips and the need to be _quiet_. Mycroft complies, gripping the bed sheets with his free hand as he holds himself suspended on one elbow over his temporary lover. He’s panting, too hard and too fast to keep up with the fervent brush of mouths, but they try anyway.

It’s too much, too fast, and he’s spilling over onto Greg’s bare stomach beneath them before he really wants to. Greg follows soon enough however, so it must have been adequate for him as well, their combined pleasure painting a mess of white over the dark trail leading down to the softening cock in Mycroft’s hand.

They clean up quickly, dress just as fast, and Mycroft is less concerned by the floor-wrinkled state of his suit and shirt than he perhaps should be. He expects to be shown the door, is surprised when he isn’t, sure hands guiding him back to the bed and into a now-familiar lap. Kissing seems just as familiar now, and Mycroft takes his time, mapping out every inch of Greg’s mouth for future reference. He smells good, he tastes better, and it’s only the tick of the clock which eventually drives them apart.

Mycroft doesn’t want to leave. Greg doesn’t want him to either.

It’s just after half past five when they part ways, mouths kiss-swollen and hair sex-mussed. Greg tells him to call, asks him twice, and there’s an odd sort of desperation there that Mycroft knows he isn’t equipped to unpack.

He’s already memorised Greg’s phone number. He keeps the slip of paper anyway.


End file.
